


The Prince Diaries: The Royal Fuckup

by clokkerfoot (orphan_account), thewaywardqueen



Category: Princess Diaries 2: Royal Engagement RPF, Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: AU, Crack, Dubious Consent, F/M, Falling In Love, Film based AU, Fluff, King Geoff, Lord Gavin, M/M, Mavin, Prince Michael AU, Princess Diaries AU, smut in later chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-09
Updated: 2014-04-20
Packaged: 2018-01-15 04:56:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1292221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/clokkerfoot, https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewaywardqueen/pseuds/thewaywardqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael Jones, five years ago today, was told by his grandfather Geoffrey Ramsey that he was to take the throne in place of him when he stepped down. And now, here he is, caught between his duty to marry his betrothed, Princess Lindsay Tuggey, and his desire to marry someone he truly loves. Lord Gavin Free, as per his uncle’s wishes, has been sent to Prince Jones’ kingdom to seduce the heir, only to find himself falling for the boy with the charming smile and the crown upon his head.</p>
<p>AN: You don't need to have watched the movie "The Princess Diaries: The Royal Engagement" to understand this fic. But you should watch that movie anyway. Julie Andrews is perfection.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prince Michael Jones

**Author's Note:**

> So, this was incredibly fun to write. And we're not done yet! But, to make it easy for you, because even we can't remember who is who all the time, here is the list of characters.
> 
> Mia Thermopolis → Michael Jones  
> Nicholas Devereaux → Gavin Free  
> Queen Clarisse Renaldi → Geoff Ramsey  
> Joseph → Griffon Ramsey  
> Andrew Jacoby → Lindsay Tuggey  
> Viscount Mabery → Ryan Haywood  
> Lilly Moscovitz → Ray Narvaez Jr  
> Head of Militant Troops → Joel Heyman  
> That Prick Lionel → Miles Luna  
> Charlotte Kuttaway → Jack Pattillo  
> Nicholas’ Date with the Horse → Daniel Gruchy  
> Asana → Barbara Dunkelman  
> Prince Jacques → Millicent Ramsey  
> Fat Louie - Egg
> 
> There are only brief moments where Joelay and Danvin appear, but Geoffin, Mavin and Juggey are prominent ships. Enjoy, R&R <3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, Michael is a Prince. He isn't quite prepared for this royal life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Michael can't deal with ballroom dancing. Except with one anonymous stranger.

_07/21_

_Well, here I am. It’s been exactly five years since I met my grandfather for the first time in my life, and was told that I had a fucking country to run. Prince Michael Jones, ruler of Achievia. Sounds absolutely surreal. And yet, I’m on a plane about to land outside my goddamn palace. I don’t believe it. It’s all bullshit. Maybe Egg can rule Achievia, and I can just go back to high school._

  


Michael tucked his journal into his satchel as he took his seat inside the gleaming black car, settling comfortably into the soft leather that he still wasn’t accustomed to sitting on in every car journey he took. He wasn’t going to even _try_ and pretend to himself. He was fucking terrified. He’d barely been a Prince for five years, and here he was, being chauffeured to his very own palace. Well, his grandfather’s palace. It’d be his one day. Holy fuck.

  


His cat, Egg - a purring bundle of ginger fur he’d found on the street when he was eleven years old, now an old girl - was sat on the seat to his left, sleeping peacefully, claws grabbing at the material of the seats as she snoozed. Egg had been the only constant throughout the mess that’d he fondly refers to as the “Hell Years” since his grandfather had appeared and flipped his whole life upside down, and he hoped to God that they’d let him keep her in the palace.

  


“Your Highness, we have nearly arrived at the palace, if you would like to prepare yourself,” his chauffeur called from the front of the car, shaking Michael from his slightly traumatizing daydreaming.

  


“Yep- er, yes, thank you.”

  


“You are most welcome, sir.”

  


Sir. He still wasn’t used to being called that. His fingers pulled at his tie, fiddling with the tight knot his mother had tied before he’d left his hometown, nervous sweat already beginning to prick up on the back of his neck as the palace came into view at the end of the road. He could hear the muffled sounds of the townspeople outside the car yelling greetings at him, and never in his life had he been more appreciative of tinted windows. Michael knew it was his royal duty to interact with the people of Achievia, but he could barely deal with his own family today, let alone strangers. His _subjects._

  


“Sir, we have arrived.”

  


Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  


More muffled sounds of loud voices came from outside the car, Michael heard the bang of a staff on the ground, and then the door was opening and he was affronted with a warm breeze and the sound of polite applause. He stepped out from the car, to the announcement of his royal title, and smiled as countless cameras flashed around him. The palace loomed above him, a shadow creeping across the gravel in front of him, gleaming white marble steps inviting him to go inside and face his future.

  


He swallowed, forced his foot to take a step forward, and then he was walking, surrounded by warm greetings to which he automatically responded, advancing up the steps into the palace. Smiling calmly at the few people that had followed him to the top of the steps, he walked through the large oak doors that were opened for him, and was hit with a wave of comforting warmth and the scent of baking bread.

  


The first thing that caught his eye - expensive interior design aside - was how damn _clean_ everything was. It was a fucking spotless. He'd been to a few manors with his grandfather, but he had never visited a full-blown this-is-where-the-monarchy-lives palace before.

  


Nothing like in the movies. Too many people.

  


"Your Highness!" a deep voice called, the clump of feet greeting Michael's ears, and then a sharp bow from a bearded man startled him out of his stunned thoughts, "Welcome to the palace. I am your grandfather's personal assistant, and I am willing to assist you with anything you desire. My name is Jack Pattillo, and if you could please follow me, I will escort you to your grandfather's suite," Michael just started at the man who vomited words at him faster than he'd ever heard anyone speak, smiling supportively.

  


A woman with blond hair and the sickest sleeve tattoos he'd ever seen suddenly appeared at his side - he wondered if they were approved by his grandfather, then remembered the smattering of tattoos he himself had - giving him a short courtesy and a quiet _Your Highness,_ "Ah, this is our head of security, Griffon Ramsey, who will be safeguarding you during your stay at the palace. She may, occasionally, be joined by her trainee, Joel Heyman. Now, please, follow me."

  


Michael followed the man like a blind puppy, observing all the staff walking through the halls with smiles plastered on their faces, nodding their heads at Michael as he passed. He liked being a Prince, but sometimes the respect he received was a little overwhelming. The workers - Jack and Giffon? Griffon? - were wearing sharp black outfits, Griffon's shirt cutting short midway down her biceps, a smart waistcoat adorning her chest. Jack's suit was crisp and clean, something Michael found appropriate only at weddings. They entered a hallway, with two guards standing at attention beside the double doors ahead of them, which were opened as they came closer to them.

  


Michael heard Griffon mutter, "The sparrow has landed," in a low voice, and he noticed a small translucent earplug inserted into her ear, trailing a cord.

  


"Michael, my boy!"

  


"Grandfather!" he responded almost instinctively to the sound of the voice he had come to trust over the past five years, turning and embracing the speaker. Geoffrey Ramsey, King of Achievia, had been ruling the country solo for nearly twenty four years, and although age was impeding his ability to be the same King he was when he first married Michael's grandmother, Amelia, his crooked smile and cracking laugh still brought joy to the country he so fondly ruled.

  


"Come, Michael, we have much work to do," Michael nodded politely, following his grandfather into the King's suite, noticing that with just a simple wave over his shoulder his entourage of staff halted and didn't enter the suite with them. The second the double doors had been closed by the guards, Geoff’s whole demeanour changed, his shoulders slumped, and he threw himself backwards onto a plush couch, “Michael! How’ve you been?”

  


“Er, I’ve been just fine, grandfather.”

  


“Michael, please. In this palace, call me Geoffrey. Actually, screw that. That name is boring as dicks. Call me Geoff.”

  


“Yes, um, Geoff.”

  
“And stop being so damn _formal._ It’s disgusting,” the King leaned over the arm of the couch, pulling a bottle of bourbon and two glasses, which were held expertly between his middle finger and his forefingers. Watching Michael’s expression carefully, he unscrewed the cap on the bottle and poured out two measures of the amber liquid, “In here, when it’s just me and my newfound grandson, I expect for you to drop your goddamn Prince training, and just be yourself. Relax. Cuss. Drink. Be the Michael Jones your _mother_ expects you to be, not the Michael that the _monarchy_ expects you to be,” Geoff took a long swig of one of the glasses, handing the other one to Michael with a nod.

  


Michael accepted the glass, lowering himself onto the arm of the couch with an exhausted sigh, before taking a small sip from the glass. The alcohol stung at his throat and burned a line all the way down his chest, coming to a weighty standstill in his stomach. He’d not had a hard drink for a long time, and it was _heaven,_ “Alright. How’ve you been, Geoff?”

  


“Just dandy. Sick to death of the formalities of being King, but absolutely used to it. It, of course, has its… perks.”

  


“Perks? You mean _aside_ from the ridiculously enormous amount of wealth under your command _and_ the country of willing subjects?”

  


“Oh, so many perks. Speak of the devil,” the door opened with a slight creak, and Michael saw the slender face of the Griffon woman, the head of security, smiling through the crack in the doorway at the King.

  


“Your Highness? There are some townsfolk that wish to speak to you about the well in their village,” Griffon said with a gentle smile. Michael noticed that Geoff had skillfully hidden the glass of bourbon he had somehow managed to drink most of, and he did the same, hiding it behind the bend of his knee. The knowing expression on Griffon’s face was enough to convince Michael that this was _not_ the first time she’d walked in on Geoff with a drink in his hand, “Sir, I can send them away if-”

  


“No, no, my dear, it is absolutely fine. I will greet them. Michael, feel free to explore the palace, or remain here. The choice is yours. Be aware that your party is in several days, however, and you have clothing options to select. Griffon, if you could fetch Jack and have him summon the tailor, that would be just splendid,” Geoff’s King facade was so unlike his true personality it actually startled Michael.

  


“Of course, my liege.”

  


“Farewell, Michael. Take care. I shall speak to you at dinner this evening.”

  


“Yes, grandfather,” and with that, King Geoff was gone, and Prince Michael was left to his thoughts, waiting patiently for the tailor to arrive and grope him under the pretense of ‘measuring his inseam’.

  


-

  


Michael had been standing awkwardly for 10 minutes by the large wooden doors that would lead him to his 21st birthday party in silence. It wouldn’t have been so bad if Griffon spoke to him. Instead she had a fierce glare that she flicked between Jack and the direction Geoff should have arrived in 5 minutes ago. He let out a sigh of relief when the rugged figure finally approached the trio dressed smartly in a three-piece suit and neatly combed, for once, hair. Michael saw thunder in the expression on Griffon's face, her cheeks pink with frustration, hair mussed _just_ to the point that it was still tidy, but noticeably fiddled-with, “You’re late, your Highness,” she complained, glaring at Michael’s grandfather.

  


Geoff only smiled in return, his eyes filling with amusement, “A king is never late, Griffon. Everyone else is simply early.”

  


“Sweet line,” Michael muttered under his breath, earning him a glare from both Griffon and Geoff, “Sorry, where should I be going?” Griffon shook her head, directing him towards a flight of stairs where a maid in a white apron was stood, grinning at the Prince with an expression of utter awe on her face. Michael sauntered over to her, fastening up the lowest button on his waistcoat, adjusting his lapels so they sat straight, and ran his hand through his hair to check it was still messy.

  


“Your Highness,” the maid said with a small courtesy, her cheeks pink with embarrassment.

  


Michael smiled at her, “I don’t like curtseying, my sweet. I prefer to kiss such a beautiful lady on the back of her hand,” he did so, noticing the way the maid shivered and straightened her posture, “Now, my dear, are you to escort me on this fine evening?”

  


“Oh, no! Gosh, no, I am just a maid, your Highness,” the maid garbled her words together, fiddling anxiously with the string of her apron as she avoided Michael’s gaze. She was fucking cute, but she was a _maid,_ “I am here to ensure you make it safely to the top of these stairs, before your grand entrance. O-of course, I can escort you if you wish, my liege.”

  


“No such thing will be necessary, darling. I am to dance with the eligible ladies of the country this evening and _you_ , I am sad to admit, are not a Princess, are you?”

  


“N-no, but-”

  


“Thank you, but I think I can make it up these dangerous steps by myself, dear. Go tend to my grandfather,” the maid spluttered, her eyes widening, and she darted away from Michael with a whimper, “Thank God,” he murmured.

  


He wouldn’t ever admit it, but being Prince had really shifted his views on people. He still treated maids and servants and butlers like they were normal people - after all, he’d been normal until recently - but after being pampered for the past five years, he found the predictable nature of _normal people_ like the pretty maid to be offensive. Michael adjusted the crown upon his head, plastered a smile on his face, and advanced up the stairs. A guard halted him before a set of oak double doors, nodding at him.

  


“-thday today, so will you all please join me in raising a glass for Prince Michael Jones.”

  


The double doors swung open, Michael smiled widely, and stepped out into the warmth of the ballroom. He was stood on an outcrop above the main dancefloor, a sea of faces staring up at him, a mass of black suits and multicoloured dresses greeting him. He raised his arm to wave, smiling and nodding at the people below him. A soft clink met his ears, and he realised with a flush of embarrassment that his watch had come loose and flown away from his wrist. _Fuck._

  


A guard - bless him - saved Michael’s ass from the wave of gasps and shocked murmurs from the guests below, handing over the watch he expertly caught, smiling tenderly, “Don’t worry, it happens all the time. Oh, and happy birthday.”

  


“Thank you,” Michael said, genuinely, for the first time in weeks, and snapped the watch back onto his wrist. The murmurs stilled, and then he was being led by his arm down the steps by none other than Griffon, now dressed in an elegant black floor-length dress, who smiled up at him encouragingly. Fuck knows how she managed to change so quickly. Suddenly, smooth jazz music sounded from the foot of the stairs, and the crowd below him dispersed.

  


“Your Highness, you understand that you are to dance with the eligible Princesses of the country this evening, yes?”

  
“Er, yeah.”

  


“Good. Don’t be alarmed if your grandfather dances with women, too” Griffon shook her head, eyes rolling and smile widening, “He’s a silver fox to these ladies.”

  


“Didn’t need to know that, thanks, Griffon,” Griffon laughed, then released his arm as they reached the bottom of the stairs, gesturing him towards a woman dressed in a slim silver gown, a small tiara upon her head, who blushed and introduced herself as Princess Kara. Michael smiled politely, taking her by the waist, and began to dance. After the song ended relief filled him to the brim, he spotted his favourite blonde stood by the drinks, swirling a glass of wine around her fingers. Michael politely excused himself from Princess Kara's presence, and joined Barbara by the tables.

  


“Thank god. You’re here!”

  


"Oh, Prince Michael," his friend cooed, "I'm never far away. How has royal life been treating you?"

  


"It's just _awful_."

  


"I bet it is."

  


Chuckling, he followed the grinning Barbara towards the drinks, small talk blooming between them as if they'd spent the last year together, rather than on separate continents. He was so engrossed in his conversation that his heart nearly gave out from shock when he found himself stumbling over a man's feet, slamming into his body hard.

  


“Oh, shit! Sorry I-” Michael looked up to apologise to the man, for his clumsiness, when his words got stuck in his throat. Whoever he was, he was fucking pretty. Michael didn’t even know guys could be pretty. The man had fluffy sandy hair, which flicked up at the back and framed his slim face, and made him look exceptionally feminine. Bright green eyes were staring at Michael, his eyebrows raised, with a curious smirk on his lips. His whole face was a maelstrom of utter beauty, and he had an expression that Michael couldn’t quite place… and he was talking to Michael. _Wait, what’s he saying?_

  


“-my fault, your Highness,” oh shit, he was British. Michael felt a gentle hand on his shoulder, and he realised that he'd been leaning heavily on the man. He blushed, and stepped just back from him.

  


"Oh, gosh, no, I'm terribly sorry. It's not your fault at all. I just- I'm so clumsy."

  


"Please don't apologise, Prince Michael. I am entirely at fault. If you'll excuse me-" then man disappeared from Michael's side, walking away with intent. He watched him go, gaping.

  


"He was cuuute," Barbara whispered in Michael's ear, laughing softly. He just spluttered in response, shaking his head and leading Barbara by the crook of her arm to the dance floor. They danced like best friends, which, in a way, they had become, and it made the wild thoughts of meeting that green-eyed man slip to the back of his mind.

  


-

  


Seventeen Princesses and several members of Parliament later, Michael was well and truly exhausted. The Parliament members - all graying old bastards - had tried to talk to him about _politics,_ of all things, and he was mentally drained. Several of the women he had danced with had been extremely flamboyant dancers, parading Michael around the room with red cheeks and bounding footsteps. Michael had finally found a spare moment, and sat himself down on a silk chair next to the banquet table, sneaking a few of the grapes on the table, when he saw Griffon running over to him.

  


“Sorry, Prince Jones, you have a few more Princesses to dance with. It won’t take long, I swear.”

  


Michael groaned, “Fine. How many more members of Parliament?”

  


“Only one, sir.”

  


“ _Ugh._ ”

  


“Stop complaining. Gosh, you’re just like your grandfather.”

  


“Wouldn’t you know…”

  


“Excuse me?”

  


“Nothing!” Michael rose wearily, sneaking a knowing glance at his head of security as she muttered curse words to herself, before taking Michael over to a petite girl wearing a neat pink dress, a small tiara upon her blonde head, who smiled up at Michael.

  


“Prince Michael, this is Princess Millicent of Fortland. She’s eight years old, isn’t that right, Millicent?”

  


“Yes! Please call me Millie. Your Highness, it’s an honour to meet you,” the small girl bowed, the smile on her face widening, “Could I please have this dance?”

  


“I’m used to asking that, my dear, but of course!” Michael placed one hand on the girl’s shoulder, the other holding her tiny hand out to his side. Her face was ecstatic, a happy little smirk on her lips, and he began to dance a very small, slightly compacted waltz with her, “You seem like a lovely little girl, Millie. You’re a splendid dancer, for one so young. Such a surprise!”

  


“Not at all, Prince Jones. I’ve been dancing for as long as I’ve been a Princess. It’s an honour to meet such an esteemed royal!” Millie’s language was far surpassing that of any eight-year-old’s that Michael had ever encountered. Not that that was many, “I’d kiss you on the cheek, but I’m afraid I’m not tall enough.”

  


Michael bent his back just enough for the petite girl to press her lips lightly against his cheeks, “Thank you, sir!” Michael grinned down at her, about to reply, when he felt a warm pressure on his arm.

  


“May I have this dance, Princess Millicent?”

  


“Oh. Oh! Of course. Thank you, your Highness,” Millie pulled away from Michael, nodding her head at the figure to his right before darting into the crowd, and only then did he turn to see who it was beside him. A shock ran through his body; it was the man whose feet he’d squashed earlier. His slim lips were turned up in a smile, his green eyes sparkling with amusement. Michael was about to protest to his intrusion, but then a hand was in his own, another on his waist, and he was being led through a dance.

  


“I’m sorry for stepping on your feet earlier.”

  


“Not a problem, your Highness. After all, I’m the one with the big feet around here.”

  


“Not to mention big _nose._ ”

  


“Oh, touché,” the man’s smooth English accent rolled off his tongue like melted chocolate, engulfing Michael in his elegant tones.

  


“I never found out your name,” Michael commented. They had slowly moved around the dancefloor, earning a few stares, and it only occurred to Michael how strange it must be for the people present to see their future King dancing with a man. He didn’t even know if he was invited to this party, let alone royalty. What if he was a stalker?

  


“Gavin. Just Gavin.”

  
“Gavin. I’m Michael, as I’m sure you’re aware. This _is_ my party.”

  


“Ah, thank you for reminding me. Happy birthday, Michael!”

  
“Good God, say my name properly, you fuck,” Michael smacked his lips together after the cuss word escaped his mouth, his cheeks heating up. A Prince wasn’t supposed to curse around his family, let alone around guests. He remembered that one of the first words he’d said to the man had been an almighty _Shit!_ and he relaxed slightly.

  


“Oh, Michael,” _there he goes again. Mi-cooool_ , “You’re such a charmer,” their foreheads were almost touching now, their professional waltz gone, replaced by a soft swaying motion in the same place, and every breath from Gavin’s mouth tickled his skin.

  


“Look who’s talking.”

  


“Excuse me, but I believe that it is Princess Meg’s turn to dance with the Prince,” a voice interrupted, and Gavin’s hands dropped from Michael’s waist as if they’d been burned, the slightly taller man backing away from him with a pained smile, “Thank you, sir.”

  


“Not a problem, Princess. If you’ll excuse me,” and, just like that, Gavin had disappeared back into the throng of guests, and Michael was automatically sweeping the redheaded Princess Meg into his arms, beginning a waltz almost instinctively. She was talking to him, but he couldn’t stop thinking about the man with the dirty blond hair.

  


-

  


Michael had had an interesting morning. After his birthday, Geoff had taken him to his private bar deep beneath the castle, in one of the cellars, and got him absolutely smashed out of his head. He’d never drunk so much hard liquor in his life. So, when he woke up, hungover at 10am, the rough feeling of his two perky maids (two young men called Kerry and Miles) coaxing him awake was not what he wanted or needed. After a round of coffee ice cream and one of the strongest actual coffees he’d ever had, Michael was running solely on adrenaline, and left to explore the palace while his grandfather was in Parliament.

  


After avoiding every member of staff he’d seen, Michael had somehow ended up in a dark corridor which, creepily, was lit by actual _torches_ on the walls. The stone walls were slightly damp, and the cracks had moss in them, cobwebs spiking across the corners. _I’m in a fucking horror movie, I swear._

  


He came to a dead end, sighing and furrowing his brows. There were some strange aztec-looking statuettes on platforms indented in the wall, dust gathered across their mottled surface. Michael tilted one curiously, and nearly shit himself when the wall behind him split apart with a cacophonous noise, the grinding sound of stone on stone echoing around him, and the dim lights in the hallway revealed the shadows of a small room.

  


Michael crept into the room he was undoubtedly going to die in, if Hollywood was to be believed, and he heard voices coming from a small metal flap in the wall. He lifted it gingerly, his eyes finding the face of a tired Geoff. It took him a few moments to realise it was the royal courtroom, and, after sparing barely a second to feel guilty about eavesdropping on official business, he decided to actually listen to the conversation.

  


“-So, of the 23rd of May on the occasion of his 21st birthday, another member of the royal lineage became eligible for the throne,” a deep voice sounded from within the courtroom, and Michael’s stomach dropped.

  


“ _What?_ ” Michael whispered to himself.

  


“My nephew, Lord Free.”

  


“Excuse me, Viscount Haywood?” Geoff was looking more pissed off than Michael was feeling, which was saying something. _I thought I was supposed to be King?_ His stomach roiled uncomfortably. _Has Geoff fucking lied to me?_

  


“My nephew was the son of my sister. Therefore, I am pleased to say, Your Majesty, he is ready to take his place as Achievia’s rightful king,” the man - Viscount Haywood - replied coolly, as if he had practiced his response countless times in front of the mirror like a high schooler preparing for a speech, and Michael frowned. His voice sounded familiar, but he wasn’t sure where he’d heard him before.

  


“You can fuck _right_ off!” Geoff half-yelled in response, his face slipping from its usual mask of polite - albeit hungover - understanding to one of complete rage, before snapping quickly into one of shock at the words he’d let slip out. Michael’s snort of laughter was barely contained.

  


“I _beg_ your pardon?”

  


“Sorry, this is an American saying. Sometimes - what His Majesty said - does not mean…” Michael saw his grandfather’s PA stand up from where he was sat, holding out his hand by way of an apology on behalf of Geoff, “- er, _that_ , but ‘oh my’ or ‘wow’, or- ‘gosh’, it can just- I...” His voice faltered and he sat back down, lips pressed tightly together.

  


“But isn’t Prince Michael first in line for the throne?” A voice piped up from the end of the courtroom.

  


“Well, not quite,” yet another man interrupted the stream of mutters from the aisles, “The public are still unsupportive of this choice. He is not a man of Achievia and has not got the people’s approval.”

  


“That is completely irrelevant. He is the first in line by right of birth,” Geoff spoke up, his voice only just below shouting level, “Where he was brought up should not matter.”

  


“Nevertheless, if the people do not believe him to be a man of this country they will not be happy under his rule,” Haywood countered. Geoff glared harshly at him, and the blond Viscount grinned at him maliciously.

  


“What if he were to marry a woman from Achievia? That is how it was done by many past kings,” someone piped up from the rows of people in the courtroom, and Michael damn near voiced his protests. Marriage? He’d justfound out that he was going to be Kingand now he’s going to have to get _married?_ Holy fuck.

  


“That is an outdated and downright moronic method-”

  


“It was successful in the past and should be now!” A thin dark haired man cut off Geoff mid-rant and the room fell quiet.

  


“Lord Sorola-” Geoff once again tried to continue only to be stopped again.

  


“Prince Michael is not fit to rule because he is not considered to be part of this country. And, forgive me, Your Majesty, we do not all believe he is the best choice, despite your best efforts to train him to be a King,” Lord Sorola, apparently, continued. The whole court burst into noise at the statement and all looked to Geoff for his response, who looked to be deciding not his words, but whether or not he should punch Lord Haywood.

  


Finally a strong voice settled down the group, “Gentlemen! I suggest we give Prince Michael one year and if he has not married a citizen of Achievia than he forfeits the throne to Lord Free.”

  


“ _What_ \- no!” Michael complained loudly, no longer caring if they could hear him, luckily the court was in uproar and it was lost in the noise.

  


“I object most strongly!” Haywood shouted over the ruckus, his hand slamming on the desk before him in a gesture so violent it could almost be heard through the explosion of voices.

  


“30 days.” Lord Sorola decreed, and silence fell as the parliament nodded and looked to Geoff, who sighed hoarsely before nodding his head.

  


Michael slammed the metal flap closed and stormed out of the dusty room, more enraged and frustrated than he had ever been in his life. They couldn’t make him do it. He _refused._

  
  



	2. Dame Lindsay Tuggey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael finds himself being forced into a Royal Engagement, only to experience the flirtations of one Lord Gavin Free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter two! Translations for Gavin and Michael's spurt of Italian can be found at the notes at the end. Enjoy the chapter, and there is - wuhey - some rather intimate smut in this chapter. Have fun!

====

  


_07/21_

_Well, shit. I’ve got to get married. Me, married! I call bullshit on the entirety of the body of sweaty old men my grandfather has the audacity to call Parliament. Not only do I have to get married - but I only have a measly 30 days to find myself a wife. Oh my god, a wife. I don’t want to get married, to anyone, but a woman? I’ve never been with a woman in my whole life! Fuck. To be fair, I haven’t been with a guy either, but shut up. I’m the King. Or future King. I can bullshit my way through my own diary entry if I want to._

  


Michael paced back and forth across his temporary room yelling as Geoff eyed him wearily. “- Why would they even think I can do this? _I can’t get married_ \- I mean maybe, one day - but not in 30 days! How am I expected to fall in love? It’s like I’m being tricked into an arranged marriage- wait. That’s it! I don’t have a choice; I _have_ to have an arranged marriage. But who would even _agree_ to something like that-” Geoff coughed and cocked an eyebrow at him. “Oh, right. You did.”

  


“Well, unlike your whiny ass, I wasn’t royal by birth. Sarah was an old friend of mine and when she needed a husband to become queen… I accepted.”

  


“But c’mon that must have been weird.”

  


“It was weird at first but after a while we made it work. It wasn’t love but it wasn’t half bad.”

  


“Well, you guys were friends first”

  


“If anything being friends first made it weirder. Trust me, kid, you'll be fine,”

  


Michael let out a heavy sigh, “So, this is really happening then,” he threw himself down onto the couch, rubbing his temples with his hands as a headache threatened to bloom in his head.

  


“Yep. I wish there was something I could do, but there really isn’t.”

  


“I know- still sucks though,” Geoff chortled at that, and then downed the rest of the golden liquid in his tumbler, shaking his head after he’d swallowed it. He looked genuinely pitiful, almost apologetic, but Michael just shrugged and sighed. He picked up a glass of water, and took a sip.

  


“Alright, well you get some rest. Oh, and I invited Haywood and Free to stay at the palace so we can make sure any funny business will be under our watch.”

  


Half of Michael’s mouthful of water ended up on the floor after his grandfather’s confession, and he nearly screamed in frustration, “You invited them _here?_ To the palace? Oh, god, really?”

  


“Like I said, I’d like to know what they’re up to.”

  


“You’re a right cock, you know that?”

  


Geoff smiled fondly, then gestured towards the doors leading to Michael’s bedroom, “I get told that every single day. Go to bed.”

  


“Goodnight grandfather,” he said with a curt nod of his head, and he leapt over the back of the couch and walked into his bedroom. He felt like death was upon him, and the day’s _oh so exciting_ activities had made him tired as hell. Michael barely bothered to take his clothes off, and he ended up collapsing onto his bed with one sock on, his suit pants down to his knees, and with his shirt half unbuttoned.

  


Tomorrow was going to be an interesting day.

  


-

  


“Oh, straighten yourself up, Michael. The Viscount and his nephew will be here presently,” Geoff called as he walked briskly into the room, face flushed and hands rubbing together nervously.

  


“Right, right…” Michael rolled his eyes, straightening his tie and tucking the tail of his shirt into the waist of his pants. He’d been relatively scruffy all day, but he’d been moping in his room all morning - as his grandfather had so eloquently worded it - and now, here he was, sat with the same man who threw a bottle of scotch at him at 8am, about to meet the people trying to steal _his_ crown. And he hadn’t even had lunch yet. Bullshit.

  


“Presenting, Viscount Haywood, and his nephew, Lord Free,” Jack’s voice boomed, and Michael stood up straight, staring at the opening double doors. He nearly choked on his saliva.

  


Gavin was walking through the door. Gavin from the ball. He was walking through the doors with a knowing smirk on his face, the same one he was wearing when he ran into Michael before they danced. ‘Just Gavin’, that’s what he’d said. What a fucking liar. Gavin was the very man trying to steal Michael’s crown, and he’d _danced_ with him.

  


Behind Gavin was the only person he’d actually expected to see that day, Viscount Haywood, whose face was placid, although Michael could see the fire in his eyes.

  


“Ah, Viscount Haywood. It’s a pleasure to have you here at last,” Geoff said with a polite smile and a firm handshake.

  


“The pleasure is all ours, Your Majesty, and good to finally to meet you in person, Prince Jones,” the Viscount said with an almost kind smile, holding his hand out to shake Michael’s. Michael frowned and looked at Gavin instead.

  


“ _Lord_ Gavin, is it? Such a pleasure to finally meet the _real_ you,” Michael said in what he hoped was a malicious voice. Served that bastard right for lying to him. He’d almost liked him, and here he was, trying to steal the throne, being all self-righteous and pretentious.

  


“Prince Michael. _E 'un piacere conoscerti di nuovo,”_ since when had Gavin been able to speak Italian? He had a _British_ accent.

  


“I don’t speak Italian, _cazzo_ ,” Michael smiled up at Gavin, baring his teeth _just_ enough to be threatening, and then slammed his foot down onto the other man’s foot as hard as he could. Gavin’s answering squeak of pain and the way his body buckled from the pain was enough to satisfy Michael, and he stormed away from him. He could hear Jack apologising on his behalf as he left the room, and, as he slammed the door behind him, he swore he felt the eyes of a certain British Lord watching him leave.

  


He was halfway down the corridor towards the main entrance hall when he heard his name being yelled by his grandfather, anger tainting the gruff tones of his voice.

  


“Do you want to tell me what the _hell_ that was about, Michael? How _dare_ you treat our guests like that? And since when could you curse in Italian?!” Geoff yelled when he caught up with Michael. He stopped and glared at his feet, frowning, then spun on the spot and glared right at his grandfather.

  


“I’ve met Gavin before, as it happens. At the party. I didn’t know he was _Lord Free_ , though, and I certainly didn’t know he was after the throne,” Michael sighed. _Why doesn’t anything ever go right for me? I just wanted to dance with a cute guy_.

  


“Oh,” Geoff seemed to catch on to his tone, “And you two hit it off then?”

  


“What do you think?” _He’s smart, handsome, funny. And when he smiles it’s like the whole room just lights up._ Michael didn’t say it aloud, but he was thinking about how amazing Gavin was, and how much he wanted to break his dumb fucking huge nose.

  


“I didn’t know you were-”

  


“Few people do,” Michael cut him off, heat tainting his cheeks. He’d known for years that women didn’t appeal to him, but he’d never been especially attracted to guys, either. There was that one kid, Monty, a scrawny dude who loved the arts, who made his stomach flutter, but he’d never really been attracted to anyone. Ever.

  


“Well, as your King you should know that I formally disagree with your actions towards Lord Free, and demand an immediate apology,” Michael nodded, looking down at his feet and frowning, “But as your grandfather I say... fuck yeah. He deserved it,” Michael lifted his head and saw Geoff’s trademark lopsided grin, “I should have known they were already making trouble. I’ll get Griff to keep a close eye on them.”

  


“Well, I don’t know if there’s much they could do except assassinate me. That doesn’t sound like a bad idea right now.”

  


“Whatever, you fucking drama queen. Oh, your room’s finished, by the way.”

  


“My room?”

  


“Your suite, moron. It’s finally ready. It’s exactly how your mom said you’d want it, and our designers had a hand in making the finer elements of it.”

  


“Er, okay. Can you take me there?” Geoff’s answer was a vigorous nod. Michael grinned, and then he was being dragged by his wrist - that seemed to be happening a lot since he arrived at the palace - back towards his grandfather’s own suite, “Hey, we’re not bunking, are we?”

  


“Oh, shut up, Michael.”

  


He snorted and yanked his hand out of Geoff’s grip, “I can walk by myself,” Geoff grunted and sped up, his shoes making quick taps against the floor as he led Michael down a corridor headed left from his suite, and down towards an area of the palace he’d never been allowed to go to before. Now he knew why.

  


“I miss having people opening doors for me,” Geoff whined as he forced open a heavy-looking pair of double doors, pulling Michael inside.

  


“Your _‘assistant’_  has been away from you for less than five minutes, you lazy cunt. Do you really need her that much?”

  


“Griff is- she’s- shut up.”

  


Michael laughed, “So, where’s my suite?”

  


“Close your eyes,” he did, “I’m gonna blindfold you now.” Michael felt hands close over his eyes.

  


“Nice blindfolding.”

  


“Shut up.”

  


“You’re saying that a _lot_ today, Geoffrey.”

  


“Shu- right, walk forward,” Michael snorted in response, and let himself be walked forward for a few seconds. He heard a door creak open, the ground beneath his field changed from hard stone to soft carpet, and the temperature dipped, “Your mom said you appreciated cooler air.”

  


“True. Can I look?” the hands fell from his face, and when he opened his eyes he nearly choked.

  


The once old-fashioned room had been dragged kicking and screaming to the 21st century. Green and black furnished the wall and floor, contrastingly perfectly even though the colours seemed to match his xbox. Knowing Geoff, that was probably on purpose. He admitted to himself that the room was much larger than he was used to, and seemed even larger as a result of the simplistic design. When he caught sight of the luxurious king-sized bed he couldn’t help but childishly jump into the mass of comforters and fluffed up pillows.

  


“This is awesome, Geoff!” He grinned, throwing a cushion at his grandfather, who avoided it with a snort of laughter.

  


“Shit aim! And I haven’t even shown you the best bit.” Michael raised an eyebrow at him, watching as he lifted a remote and clicked at a door. Holy _shit_. The door opened up to an entertainment room filled to the brim with consoles, black screens, and a seemingly endless supply of games - basically his dream since he’d been a kid. This time, he let the shock show on his face.

  


“You okay there?”

  


“Yes. I have freaking heaven in my en-suite. Of course I’m okay,”

  


He handed Michael the remote and gestured at a large drawer, "Press 3!" Michael pressed the button as commanded, and the black drawer opened to reveal a selection of personalised consoles and controllers, all different shades of green and black and blue.

  


"No fucking way!"

  


"Now press combination… 213." A large door opened to shelves full of games, stacked as high as the ceiling. There had to be around 200 games, a few popular titles jumping out at Michael from the endless sea of green and white.

  


"And, finally, the best part. Press 434." A cupboard opened to reveal merch hoodies hung up on a wooden rack.

  


"Thanks. These are _great_. Not gonna lie: they’re a little bit of a letdown after all the games, but-" Michael felt arms jump at him, closing around his waist, and for a split second his heart stopped. "Jesus _fuck_!" He turned around, wondering why Geoff was so relaxed. The panic left him as his eyes landed on a familiar face peeking out from between the hoodies.

  


“Ray, you’re here!”  


“Yeah!”

  


“You’re here in Achieva!”

  


“Yeah!”

  


“Your hair looks like shit.”

  


“... Yeah, it does.”

  


“What have you been up to, man?”

  


“You know, the usual, playing video games and not drinking. Same old, same old. How about you, _Your Highness?_ ”

  


“Shut up, idiot. Oh, and Ray? I’m getting married.”

  


“Youare? To _who_?”

  


“I don’t know.”

  


-

  


There had been many times in his life where Michael questioned why he was where he was instead of sitting in his room with an Xbox controller in his hand. This was one of these times.

  


Since Michael had the organisational skills of a 5th grader, he relented into letting Jack help him find some eligible ladies of Achieva. But Jack decided that a list wasn't enough, and actually made a whole fucking PowerPoint. Michael had already spoken to Geoff about putting some men in the lineup, but his grandfather rightly mentioned that it was probably a bad idea to tell a nation, who was already unsure of him, that he was only really interested in men, especially as they had only passed same-sex marriage a few years before.

  


Ray and himself were seated on the floor with a shared pizza between them. Griffon was taking a glass, which Michael assumes is strong liquor, out of Geoff's hand. Joel - the head of the militant force, whom he’d met a few days prior, and, screaming aside, was quite a polite man - was not-so-subtly spying on Miles and Kerry, who seemed to be in a heated conversation about, presumably, anime. Jack just looked happy that they were doing what he wanted for once. The screen flicked to a picture of his favourite blonde, "Alright number one. Lady Barbara Dunkelman-"

  


"No way."

  


"Michael-"

  


"She's my best friend!" He may have deserved the punch to his shoulder. "Except for Ray."

  


"Damn right."

  


"I'm not doing it. It'd be too weird. End of."

  


"Look-" Jack started, but Geoff - with a disgruntled sigh - interrupted him, rubbing at his temples with an exhausted expression on his face.

  


"Just move on Jack. This sucks enough as it is."

  


"Fine. Number two: Princess Caiti Ward of Newsalia.”

  


"Yes! Michael, say yes!" Ray practically bounced where he sat, becoming far more excited that Michael was. He heard Joel laugh softly behind him.

  


"Isn't she first in line for her own throne?" Geoff questioned, magically with a new glass in his hand.

  


"Sadly, yes.”

  


"Then why is she in the line-up?"

  


"I just like to look at her," Jack said with a soft smile. Everyone, including Ray, rolled their eyes at this. The screen flicked to a dark haired girl that he only faintly remembered. "Arryn Zech of Belladonia, No title but good family,"

  


"Yeah, her girlfriend thinks so too," There was a chorus of _‘No homo!'_ from Ray and himself. "She's famously gay, Jack."

  


Geoff grabbed the clicker from Jack. "Too old. Too young!" Princess Millicent lit up the screen and left almost immediately and flicked other random females. "Alcoholic. Arrested too many times. Enjoys to visit whore houses. This is fucking stupid; how hard can it be? What you need is… someone your age, respectable, intelligent, someone who has a good status, but not too high-" the slideshow stopped at a red haired girl, "Someone like her,"

  


"Dame Lindsay Tuggey of Podcastany. From royal blood, but not in line for the throne. She would be a good match all in all," Jack read out in an interested voice, his thumb rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

  


"She looks... decent," Michael trailed off, staring at the image before him. She seemed okay, albeit a little dull. He could see how she might be seen as pretty, with shoulder length ruler-straight red hair and flat bangs that hung over her sparkling eyes, which looked like the ocean, a pleasant combination of blue and green. It reminded Michael of the bay out by the palace.

  


"If it helps, I've heard she was one of the first people in the world to receive an Xbox One. So she can't be _that_ bad," Ray said with a punch to Michael’s shoulder. Okay, so that made her slightly more appealing.

  


"Lindsay... okay. Let’s do this."

  


-

  


Michael’s arm was intertwined with Lindsay’s as they strolled across the freezing cliffside. One of the reasons Michael didn’t mind moving from the east coast to Europe was that it was meant to be a lot warmer. But, alas, it was freezing and windy, and there were reporters everywhere - which was honestly maybe slightly better than his original idea of how the date was going to go.

  


Even so, he tugged his scarf a little tighter for some warmth. Fucking wind.

  


He’d always found public events like this to be horrible, but this was a lot worse as they both knew they were both there with the possibility of being married. He tried to forget that fact as much as he could so he could at least not hate the redhead on his arm. After all, she seemed, well, okay, as far as possible-future-wives go.

  


She went along with the polite questions about his life even though his life had pretty much been summarised in every magazine this side of the globe. Her life was somewhat interesting to him if not a little typical of pseudo-royals. Lindsay had spent the last 2 years as a member of the RAF, and had pretty much been training to fly her whole life. She also confessed to having a degree from St. Andrew’s University.

  


Luckily, the conversation had just moved towards video games -something they did have in common.

  


“I like Resident Evil 4, but Ashley is such a waste of time to look-”

  


“No! People _always_ say that and it’s not true!” Michael attempted to kept his voice level so the reporters wouldn’t start saying that they were arguing, but he couldn’t keep his hand gestures from being exaggerated. “She’s the smartest A.I. character there is. She _actually_ does what she’s told! You just-” As if the weather wasn’t already being a pain in the ass, his scarf came loose and was caught by the vicious wind, “Goddamn it,” He snarled before rushing after it.

  


“I got it!” The redhead shouted, somehow managing to run faster than him after the scarf, despite the heels on her feet. Michael took that as a challenge to pick up his speed, realising for a split second that they probably looked ridiculous, and not very royal at all.

  


“No- Lindsay! A lady shouldn’t run after a scarf!” They both managed to reach for the scarf at the same time, and fall over into the sand. Their bodies got a little twisted and they both looked at each other in shock, noticing how close they were. After about a beat of silence Lindsay began laughing and Michael followed the action.

  


“Good- good thing I’m not a ‘lady’, then!” Lindsay replied between breaths, grinning. Michael looked up at her with a smile of his own as she tried to brush off the sand from her dress. For a moment, he believed that this could work. She was certainly pretty, she played games, and had a sense of humour. Maybe he really _could_ manage being married to her for the sake of the throne.

  


**-**

  


Less than a week later, Michael found himself having to propose with time rapidly running out. Michael had been sat with Lindsay under the pear tree in the palace gardens for nearly twenty minutes, the two of them trying to have a normal conversation without moving their lips so that the lip readers with the paps couldn't see what they were talking about. Perhaps not the best way to prepare for a proposal, but he had to do it.

  


"Lindsay?"

  


The woman in question blinked a few times, looking quite affronted that Michael had interrupted her - he wasn't listening to her anyway; she was talking about cats or some shit - but she smiled expectantly at him anyway, "Yes, Prince Jones?"

  


He prodded her in the arm, "Hey, I told you not to call me that, Linds. Just Michael is fine."

  


She giggled and the corner of her lips turned up in an adorable smirk that made Michael's heart melt. Lindsay deserved so much better than him. He couldn't provide the love and respect and, well, sex, that she needed to be happy. Fuck knows he could provide the money and security, but he couldn't ever love her. Not as a _wife_. Michael stared into her eyes for a moment, then pulled the oh-so-carefully prepared film cannister from his pocket.

  


He handed it to Lindsay, grinning at the way her face twisted in confusion, "A film cannister?" She shook it next to her ear, one perfect eyebrow rising in question.

  


"Open it." Michael said with a nod. She did, and the gasp of forced surprise that came from her drew the attention of the photographers behind the fence, whose cameras flashed and clicked.

  


"A ring?"

  


"It was my great grandfather's. He proposed to his wife with it, and they were happily married for god knows how many years. My grandfather was given it, and he was married to his wife until the day she died. I thought it could be, I dunno, good luck. For us."

  


"Ask me nicely."

  


"What?"

  


"Ask me nicely to marry you."

  


"I think I just did."

  


"Michael," Lindsay's hand came up and cupped his cheek, her raised shoulder now strategically blocking the view of the paps, "I know you don't want to marry me. I don't really want to marry you. I'm in love with a woman, for christ's sake. She's beautiful, and I love her more than life itself, and I know that you're probably in love with some idiot boy back home, but we have to do this."

  


Michael stared into Lindsay's encouraging gaze, wondering how she could possibly be so calm with something so huge, "I'm not in love with some idiot boy back home. And who's this chick you've got the hots for?"

  


"She's called Lady Barbara. Not sure you'd know her," Michael kept silent. Lindsay loved Barbs? Holy fuck, "But yeah. She's awesome. Now, propose to me, please, Prince Michael. Make me a Queen and make it look _good_."

  


Michael took the ring from her hand, and dropped to one knee. She gasped theatrically.

  


"Dame Lindsay Tuggey of Podcastany, will you do me the honour of accepting my proposal and becoming my bride, future Queen of Achieva?"

  


"Oh, Michael!" Lindsay threw her arms around him for a moment, her happy giggles making her whole body quiver and bounce, "Of course I'll marry you!"

  


She pulled back just enough so that he could slip the ring on her dainty finger, and then cameras were flashing, people were shouting and screaming, and Michael found himself caught in the throes of a royal engagement.

  


Well, fuck.

  


-

  


Michael was sat on the marble steps in the foyer of the palace. All the staff were in the gardens preparing for some shitty ceremony he had to do in a few days, and here he was, the esteemed Prince, sat on the stairs reading a fucking book.

  


It was a good book, but still.

  


His eyes skimmed over the final lines of the page, barely taking them in, and he slammed the book shut. Michael let out a long sigh, then buried his face in his hands. He couldn’t stop thinking about Lindsay. He’d proposed to her because he had to, and he had to marry her or else he’d never get his throne, and fucking _Gavin Free_ would get it instead. It was his and- what had his mother said all those years ago? _‘Sometimes we have to make sacrifices to get what we want.’_ Yeah. God, he hated it when her shitty quotes were right.

  


Michael could appreciate that Lindsay was pretty. When he looked at her, yeah, he could see why anyone might love her. But he couldn’t. He liked men. Probably.

  


Whistling split through the silence of the foyer, and Michael peered around the corner of the banister. The man walking across the foyer, with his douchey black shoes making light clicks against the marble floor, was none other than _Lord_ Gavin Free.

  


“Michael. What a surprise.”

  


Michael stood from where he was sat, tucked his book under his arm, and stared down at the Englishman who was returning the gaze with a cocky grin on his face, “Lord Free.” He walked down a step, keeping his eyes fixed on Gavin the entire time.

  


“Oh, please. Call me Gavin, Your Highness.”

  


“Michael.”

  


“Excuse me?”

  


“Michael. I’m called- I’m called Michael. Call me that.”

  


“As you wish, _Michael._ ”

  


Gavin had slowly walked towards the steps, his hands behind his back in a mock of a formal stance, his tongue coming out to wet his lips as he stared at Michael. Fuck, this dude was _creepily_ attractive. If that was even possible. The Lord advanced a step upwards, until he was just below Michael. Michael, in turn, took a step down to his level.

  


“Oh, Michael, are we dancing? I believe you still owe me a dance.”

  


“I don’t fucking owe you _anything_.”

  


“Are you sure?” Michael felt a hand curl around his waist, sending shivers running down his spine, “There’s something I’d like to give you, y’see.”

  


Gavin’s face was suddenly dangerously close to his, every detail on his smirking face vividly clear to the American. Gavin’s tongue flicked out and licked his lower lip in one, slow motion, and then he was too close and Michael’s heart was pounding in his chest, and he pushed the Brit away from him with a huff of indignation.

  


“How _dare_ you. I’m engaged!” Michael turned on his heel and crossed the foyer towards the opposite flight of stairs, walking up them as fast as he could. He could see Gavin walking up the other steps at the same speed, and he frowned. If he was anything, Gavin was persistent. Maybe he could cut him off at the top of the steps, get away to his room before the other man could catch up to him. Michael took a left and speed-walked in the general direction of his room.

  


“-arrangements for the wedding, and I can’t wait!” _Shit. It’s my maid._

  


Michael spun on the spot, cursing absently, and crashed into Gavin. “Oh, my King, so intimate!” he said with a grin, his hands gripping Michael’s biceps.

  


“Shut the fuck up!” Michael hissed. He spotted a door, and pulled Gavin through it. He could handle the fucking Lord, but if he was seen alone with him he’d have to explain himself and he just couldn’t handle that. Not when he’d just got engaged to Lindsay. God, Lindsay.

  


It was a closet.

  


“A closet, my King?” Gavin said with a smirk, flicking the lights off. Michael frowned and flicked them back on.

  


“Shut up,” Gavin flicked the lights off once more when Michael spoke, smiling at him evilly, “God- fucking stop!”

  


“Make me.”

  


“Yeah, I’ll fuckin- mmppf!” Michael tried to retort, but a pair of lips found their way onto his, a soft tongue parting his own lips forcefully while he was pushed back against the wall of the closet. Michael’s eyes fluttered closed and for a moment he was just overwhelmed with the feeling of being kissed for the first time in years. He responded as he always had, welcoming the hot wet mouth which was working in perfect sync with his.

  


Gavin’s hand slipped under his shirt, snaking its way up his chest to play with his nipple. He gasped aloud at the new sensation, breaking the kiss, throwing his head back. Wet lips and sharp teeth attacked his neck and the hand under his shirt slid back downwards over his rising and falling stomach, nails dragging over his skin, and then the prying fingers attached themselves to the waistband of his pants.

  
“P-please, Gav- Gavin! Stop. I’m- I’m engaged.” Michael groaned through the wave of sudden sensations, through the rush of this encounter, his mind barely processing how quickly the moment had progressed, “Gav-”

  


Michael's hands pushed helplessly against Gavin's shoulders as he felt the Brit pop open his pants, fingers deftly undoing his fly. _What are you doing?_ his mind screamed at him, _You’re engaged to Lindsay, and here you are, in a closet with some British idiot who’s trying to steal your crown, letting yourself get groped. What the fuck are you doing?!_

  


His boxers were snapped down under his balls, making him jump and gasp, “Gavin! Fucking _stop!_ ” Michael panted, his cock bulging in his pants as talented fingers lightly stroked their way down his length, the new feelings and sensations making Michael’s head spin.

  


“You don’t want me to stop, Michael.” And he didn’t. Fuck. He wanted _more_ of him.

  


“ _Gavin,_ ” he moaned, his knees nearly collapsing under the pleasure that was filling his body, his legs spreading wide like the dirty little whore he was. Gavin’s hand was pumping his cock like he’d been doing it his whole life - which he probably had been, Michael thought absently - his free hand fondling his ass cheek, creating all kinds of crazy sensations, and his mouth was still biting and licking at Michael’s neck and jaw.

  


Breathy gasps and moans were slipping out of his mouth, and he knew that he sounded like a desperate slut, but he’d _never_ done anything like this. His hands were grabbing wherever he could reach; Gavin’s waist, Gavin’s shoulder, barely brushing over the bulge in the Brit’s own pants. Gavin stopped attacking Michael’s neck as his hips started to thrust in time with his hand, his whole body coiling like a spring.

  
“G-Gav- I’m gonna-” Michael opened his eyes wide and stared at Gavin’s starstruck expression as his body was swept away from him, pleasure engulfing him, his balls tightening and cock spilling cum all over Gavin’s ferociously pumping hand. His hips thrust up into the tight grip of Gavin’s fist as he rode on a wave of explosive bliss.

  


Suddenly the door behind Gavin opened, and the face of a maid appeared in the now-open doorway, her eyes widened in shock. Michael dropped down from his high like a stone, suddenly glaringly aware of the position he was in: slumped against a wall with his pants down to his knees, softening cock held in the firm grip of the Lord trying to steal his crown, both of their faces red with exertion, and he nearly fell over.

  


“Miss- no, this isn’t what it seems!” He protested, pulling his boxers up as he stammered out a half-explanation, the maid simply backing away from the closet in response.

  


“Your Highness, Lord Free, I’ll just be on my way.”

  


And then he was left alone, half tucked back into his clothes, with the smirking Gavin Free. He felt hands close around his waist, and he shook them off with a growl, “How _dare_ you. I’ve never done anything this fucking filthy, and you come along and make me-” he blushed, “- _cum_ in a fucking closet. I am your future King, and you think you can just do this? I am _engaged_! To a woman! I am not gay!”

  


“I hate to disagree with a Prince, m’lord, but I think this makes you pretty gay.”

  


Before Michael knew what he was doing, he brought his hand up to slap Gavin hard across the cheek, ignoring the way that the Lord still smiled even as a red handprint marked his cheeks, “You’re a _dick._ ”

  


Michael left him stood there in the dark closet, and stormed off to his bedroom.

  


====

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gavin says: "E 'un piacere conoscerti di nuovo." which translates to "It's nice to see you again."  
> To which Michael replies: "I don't speak Italian, cazzo." which translates to "I don't speak Italian, dick."
> 
> (See? It's funny. Because he speaks Italian even though- yeah, sorry, I'll shut up.


End file.
